Petra’s Diary Part One: The Road to Detox
CHAPTER TWENTY from CAUGHT UP Truth and Metaphor | An Imaginary Tale
Petra’s Diary
Part One: The Road to Detox
20
June 29, 2006
I’m curled up in the corner of my laundry room like a wounded animal. I can’t get high anymore. These fucking pain pills… I’ve been taking them for close to three years now. It’s the same old, same old. I want to die.
What’s wrong with me?
No matter how hard I try, I can’t quit.
Whatever happened to determination and willpower?
Once upon a time, I was clean and sober for over a decade. I pretended to be happy, but I was miserable most of the time.
Who was I fooling?
Something is wrong with me in the most fundamental way, and as hard as I try, I can’t figure it out.
That fucking car accident!
I was so relieved when they gave me morphine and not because it helped with the physical pain. I needed to shut down an avalanche of twisted memories. The shot, a warm surge of relief, instantly numbed intrusive, piercing recollections. Fragmented shards of beating drums, masked tormentors, stabbing pain, suffocation, and humiliation dissolved away into blissful nothingness. Like a forgotten dream, I barely have a sense of it anymore.
The doctor sent me home with enough pills to get through the night and a script for Oxycodone. I felt soothed and pretty damn content for the first time in ages.
Four months later, I ended up in a not-too-seedy La Quinta hotel room, kicking the pills. Fucking things turned on me quick. I must have called Leo and threatened to kill myself because an officer of the law showed up. I convinced him to let me be. Somehow, I quit, but couldn’t stop thinking about sweet relief, until giving in, like all junkies do, I went searching for something even better, something stronger.
The drugs have me beat. I’m powerless to stop. Trust me, I’ve tried everything.
I look for my Creator. As absolutely reprobate as I am right here, right now, I have nowhere else to go. I tell God, who I believe has had more than enough of my loser ways, that I am sorry, so very sorry, and that I need help.
I need a fucking miracle. I have no resources. My business is failing. My husband divorced me. I am alone. Tomorrow I have an appointment to see my doctor, my somewhat suspecting dealer.
Tomorrow I will tell him I am an addict.
June 30, 2006
It's done. I told the doctor that I’m having pill problems. I also informed him I’m all out and need some more. He’s sending me to a pain specialist and before I left, graciously wrote me scripts for Vicodin and Oxy. A parting gift of sorts, although, as he handed me the scripts, he insisted he was not doing me a favor.
I can tell he's relieved to pass me on...
—
Just tried to make myself feel better with the Oxy. It's not working, not at all. I hate this stupid fucking place, the place where I can't get high no matter how hard I try. This must be some special circle of hell reserved for addicts.
July 3, 2006
I saw the pain specialist today. Had to tell him I’m addicted. I guess it’s pretty obvious since only three days have passed and my two scripts are almost gone. I’ve been having a little party trying to get high, but only staying straight.
My new doctor told me to stop taking the Oxy and Vicodin. I tried to give him my pills. He refused. Maybe that's illegal, or something. He gave me some steroid shots for the chronic pain I have. To be quite honest, I don't know where the pain leaves off, and the addiction begins.
Before I left, he handed me a script for morphine.
Can you believe this shit? It just gets better and better.
He referred me to a counseling agency and insisted I check in with them immediately.
Well, that's just lovely. Let's see how many people I can confess my addiction to in this minuscule town of mine.
I obeyed. Like I have a choice. My honesty impressed the counselor. She talked to me like I was a normal person. I feel anything but normal. Apparently, our hospital is opening up a detox at the end of the month. She wants me to go. That seems like forever from where I’m sitting. I agree.
It gets even weirder. She invited me to the Grand Opening!
Can you imagine?
She wants me to go to AA or NA.
I said, "No, way.”
I mean, come on now, do I want everyone to know I'm an addict?
—
There's something wrong with this morphine. It makes me sick. I guess I'll be going back down the hall to buy some "good" stuff from one of the little old lady addicts in my building.
July 12, 2006
I have a 12-year-old son. He lives with me. He's not doing well. Big surprise, isn't it?
I've been thinking, “How's this going to work?”
I mean, me going into detox and all. Who's going to take care of him? Not that I'm doing a great job or anything. Lately, he's always checking on me.
"Are you alright, mom? Do you need anything, mom?”
It's so sad, this little codependent that I've created.
—
I’ve done some research. Luckily, I have a computer hooked up in my store, my cool vintage clothing store on the main street of my historic little town. I found a wilderness camp for troubled teens. He can go live in the woods for a year. A year away from me would, no doubt, be beneficial.
I don't know how, but with what little strength I have left, I am going to get him set up somewhere safe. The way I'm using, I might up and die before I get to detox.
July 14, 2006
Paranoia has set in. I’m in my shop with the lights out and the doors locked. From the dark corner where I’m hiding, I can see my potential customers peering in through the window. I can't face them. I snorted pills all morning until my heart broke.
How is this possible? Will I ever get high, ever again?
I called my ex-husband. There's no one else I can bear to see. He's on his way over to do yet another emotional intervention on his crazy, drug-addicted ex-wife. He has a new girlfriend, someone special, someone not like me. I don't know why he still loves me, but he does, or does he? Maybe he gets a kick out of my pathetic condition.
—
Leo just left. He sat me out on the back steps, in the sunshine. I've become a bit of a vampire. He talked me down like only he can. His voice soothes my madness. My addiction is torturing him. I can see it in his eyes. I want to be the old me, the person I was before I turned on him, the person I was before I said all those ugly things. He used to look at me with love and adoration. Now he looks at me with fear and disgust.
Hell, I get it. That’s how I look at myself.
—
I'm home, in my bed, staring at the drawer where I keep my stash. Guess I'll give it another go.
July 20, 2006
I teeter on the edge of death. This morning I was snorting morphine pills one right after another, trying to feel something. What I felt was a slow descent toward nothingness. I recognize death when I see him. It’s clear to me now. Time to make an addict’s end of the road choice. Life or death? I think back to the Chelsea Hotel and the man in the white robes. Part of me wants to die, but I hang on like a cockroach during the apocalypse.
I'm going to lose my shop. The pressure’s too much. I gave my landlord notice, and he was none too happy. At his request, I need to vacate the premises by August 15th. I’ve been calling the detox every day to check-in. Yes, they opened, and no, I did not make it to the Grand Opening.
Soon, I’ll find out if the wilderness camp has accepted my son. I can’t go anywhere until he’s situated. It’s almost impossible for me to interact with the public anymore and to pull this off, I have to meet face to face with a camp counselor.
I called my mom and asked her to fill in at the shop for my "Going Out Of Business Sale.” Humiliated much?
I look terrible, frightening. I hide out in my room snorting pain pills night and day. When my son knocks on the door, I scramble to hide my stash. In between trying to get high, I am dreaming sweet dreams of checking into the hospital. That's progress, I suppose.
August 3, 2006
It's D-Day. I have to open my store like a big girl. The counselor is coming from camp to check us out. The apartment is clean but I’m not.
I‘m as ready as I’ll ever be for my grand performance. The performance where everyone concerned leaves believing that my son is the one with the problem and I am the loving, caring mother.
August 4, 2006
Miracles of miracles! Daniel checks into camp on the 13th. I called Detox to let them know.
They said, “We don’t usually hold a bed, but since you’ve been calling every day, we’ll make an exception.”
I check into the hospital on the 15th. This might just work out after all. My stash is calling me, and my mind is telling me it’s time to celebrate.
August 6th, 2006
A wild-looking lady in her sixties with giant bug eyes barged into my shop. She let me know she is the owner of Cat Daddy’s, the pool hall two blocks down.
“What kind of mother are you?” she said.
“Do you know where your son is? He’s down at my bar playing pool every day after school. A bar is not an after-school program, just in case you are confused. He’s a great kid and my husband has taken him under his wing, but it’s not his job, is it? If you don’t start taking proper care of him, I’m calling child services.”
I thanked her for letting me know.
August 9, 2006
The days drag by. If I were smart, I’d wean myself off some of this shit for detox. Instead, I asked the pain specialist for fentanyl patches and another script for Vicodin, pretending that I intended to taper down. Lies and more lies. I am a mad chemist experimenting on myself with different varieties and combinations of any opiate I can get my hands on.
One of the little old lady addicts in my building loves the items in my shop. I’m trading everything in sight for those killer pain pills she gets. I am out of control, miserable and my using continues to escalate. My voice has developed a telltale, raspy, and desperate edge. It’s as if it’s too tired to go on another second. I look like an addict. I probably smell like one too.
August 13, 2006
Today, I drove one last time, totally wasted, with my son in the car.
“Just to be crystal clear, once you drive away, there will be no bringing him home until we say so,” said the camp counselor.
Leaving Daniel at the wilderness camp was the hardest thing I’ve ever done. It’s an act of abandonment on steroids. I suck!
Does it really matter that it’s for the best?
I swore to myself that nothing like this was ever going to happen.
How could I do this to him? What was I thinking?
My lame-ass addiction has cost me my son.
My mind tells me I love drugs, that I have a great time doing them and that I should never stop. Let me pause and consider what I’ve lost because of drugs—I’ve lost my mind, my health, my beauty, my intelligence, my husband, my son, my foster daughter, my home, my business, my reputation and, to top it all off, I am no longer useful to my Creator.
August 15, 2006
My bag has been thoroughly investigated and a lovely Venus razor confiscated. Seems my antacids are not welcome here, either. The intake nurse placed my cigarettes in a communal holding cell. They limit smoking to four times daily inside a room that looks like a glass box. I am in said glass box, smoking with the other inmates, grateful to have my journal to hide behind. We are seven sorry, pathetic losers, choking on each other’s second-hand smoke.
I expected to be bouncing off the walls in a padded room by now. I had my mind geared up for three sleepless days and nights of vomiting, diarrhea, cold sweats and spasms.
Suboxone to the rescue!
This is the new, cutting-edge detox med for junkies. Before I left the house this morning I swallowed ten Vicodin, extra-strength. I arrived at the hospital somewhat buzzed. Next thing I know, a Suboxone is melting under my tongue and my high is gone, just like that. Damn nurse stole my last joy ride. I feel oddly normal.
The orderly says we're done smoking now.
August 16, 2006
I’ve been taking Xanax three times a day for the last four years. I took it as prescribed. When I refused to take the Phenobarbital in my med cup, the nurse informed me that Xanax is a dangerous drug and withdrawal from it is serious. I’m not buying it. I came here to stop taking drugs, not start taking them. Besides, I feel fine.
The Suboxone is freaking me out. I swear I am getting high off of it and, to tell you the truth, I like it. I hoard nicotine gum and chew it before the nurse takes my blood pressure and pulse. That’s the test to determine if I get more. I am up to 4 mg about eight times a day. I am more than comfortable. The nurse assures me that Suboxone is non-addictive and I will not experience withdrawal symptoms from it.
They make us go to AA meetings.
“But, I’m not an alcoholic. Why should I have to go?”
I go anyway. Most of my fellow inmates are alcoholics. A couple of them have been living on the streets. They remind me of the Bowery bums back in New York. It’s amazing what a shave and a shower can do for a homeless man’s appearance. I wonder if they’re relieved to be hospitalized. A sneaking suspicion that I am looking at my new peer group sends shivers up my spine.
I am an arrogant, ungrateful, stuck-up princess.
August 17, 2006
I’m scared to leave the hospital. One of the guys, another addict who went through detox the first week they opened, told me that within 24 hours of leaving, his withdrawal hit him like a freight train. He convinced himself that he had successfully detoxed and refused to take the Suboxone. He ended up sick, got high, and now, less than a month later, he’s back.
The psychiatrist is placing him on something called Suboxone Replacement Therapy. He’ll be taking it for years, just like people take methadone. That sounds like a bullshit remedy to me! I don’t want to take on a long-term dependency. I want to be free, totally free.
I am dreaming sweet dreams of detoxing in a padded cell and having it over in three days. This process has taken a seriously wrong turn.
I have an appointment with the psychiatrist tomorrow morning.
August 18, 2006
Just saw the psychiatrist. I was ready to read her the riot act. I mean, how dare she trick me into taking Methadone’s incestuous sister, Suboxone? She surprised me, and I didn’t have the chance. Instead, she took a miracle out of her back pocket and laid it on the table.
Everyone knows I have no resources and my family is sick of my screw-ups. Of course, I should transfer from here to treatment, but that costs money. I squirreled away $1,200 from my business, but that’s hardly enough to pay for a month’s rent on my apartment. So, imagine my surprise when the psychiatrist informed me I had received a full scholarship to a premier treatment facility.
“Holy shit! Someone is looking out for me.”
The place where I’m going is for the rich and famous. A former therapist, the one who diagnosed me with PTSD, suggested that I go to this rehab years ago. That is another story and, yes, a professional diagnosed me with mental illness, blah, blah, blah.
Well, I couldn’t go because it costs $25,000 for a six-week stay. This is a development well beyond my reach or imagination. There is a tiny glitch. The facility expects me to arrive fully detoxed. They do not believe in Suboxone Replacement Therapy.
Another miracle?
They will, however, make an exception this one time and detox me over there. Get this, the psychiatrist told me she has been working on my scholarship for over a month. She said people never call detox every day before they arrive. She believes in me and she’s convinced that I can get clean and stay clean. Go figure.
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A harrowing tale, shot through with unlikely humor and fantastical creatures.
This autofiction (autobiography and fiction) novel revolves around a lifetime spent underwater struggling to find the surface. The narrative follows the journey of an unlikely heroine from the bondage of childhood trauma to self-awareness and freedom.
It is a roller coaster ride from the depths of hell to triumphant success that finishes with a big Hollywood ending.